


Captain of Gondor

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Interspecies, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Boromir survives the War of the Ring and wants Frodo's forgiveness. Frodo gives him more than he imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Come on! Another sip, Frodo.”

“It’s utterly vile.” Frodo’s lips twitched and he tried to stay stern. “I won’t drink another drop.”

Pippin, dressed in full soldier of Gondor garb, laughed as he forced the goblet back to Frodo’s lips. “Come, cousin, the king will be insulted if you don’t drink more. You forget I am a soldier now, and my commands are meant to be obeyed.”

Frodo forced another swallow of the sickly sweet liquid that burned his throat and spread down his chest. “No more.” He pushed the goblet away, barely hiding a grin. “And if the same hobbit that was bird-nesting in the Shire less than a year ago is a real soldier, then Gandalf is a young hobbit lass.”

“Tsk, tsk, cousin Frodo,” Pippin said, feigning annoyance. “Don’t forget -- Ringbearer or not, I can have you hauled to prison for being discourteous to one of the king’s guards.”

“I’d like to see that,” Frodo said with a defiant smile, grabbing the goblet from Pippin and dumping the remainder of the liquid onto the stones. The red liquid trickled in between the cold stones that made up the secluded terrace. “I do believe I had better fare than this when I was captured by orcs in Mordor!”

Pippin sniffed. “I shall tell the king that you have no taste in wine.”

“I care not.” Frodo closed his eyes as if bored and leaned against the terrace wall, letting the sun warm his face. “I am tired, let me sleep.” In truth, he was more than tired. His limbs felt burdened with heavy stones, and the idea of having to climb to his feet to face the nearly thirty-minute trek back to the lodging he shared with the other hobbits near the Houses of Healing nearly brought him to tears. He would not ask Pippin for help this time. His friends fussed over him enough as it was, and especially now, with Pippin in a teasing mood, he would never hear the end of it. Frodo released a heavy sigh. Perhaps if he took a short nap in the sun, he would feel strong enough to walk when he woke.

“Come, Frodo.” Pippin tugged at Frodo’s limp arm. “I’ll help you back to our cottage. I’m sorry I teased; you look exhausted.”

Frodo kept his eyes closed. “I thought you were going to throw me in prison.”

“I am.” Pippin smiled grimly. “You’re to go back to bed and stay under Gandalf’s care. King’s orders.”

Frodo let out a sharp laugh. “Until I hear word from Aragorn himself, I do not move.”

“Is that so?” Frodo’s eyes flew open. Aragorn stood with folded arms, his lips curved in a gentle smile.

“Aragorn,” Frodo said, flushing. He hoped Aragorn would not catch the whiff of the spilled wine between his toes.

“I am afraid we have an unruly hobbit to contend with,” Pippin said.

“Yes,” Frodo said, holding Aragorn’s gaze with earnest blue eyes. “I’m afraid Pippin has been most unmanageable. I fear the only solution is a demotion to kitchen duty.”

Pippin cuffed Frodo’s arm as Aragorn let out a rich laugh. “I would resurrect Sauron before I would assign a hobbit to kitchen duty. After all, our food source is finite.” His gaze on Pippin became suddenly stern. “And speaking of duty, do you not have somewhere you should be?”

Pippin looked at him in confusion a moment before his face fell in horror. “Supper!” He jumped to his feet. “They only serve soldiers on duty at certain times and I fear I’ll miss it! Oh, dear!”

Aragorn and Frodo laughed as Pippin gave them a quick wave of farewell before trotting away at a speed that seemed most unnatural for a hobbit wearing armor.

After Pippin passed out of sight, Aragorn knelt in front of Frodo, his face grave with concern. “Gandalf has sent guards to search for you. He is very worried that you may not be well enough to be out for so long. Are you hiding?”

Frodo closed his eyes again, not sure whether to feel annoyed or relieved by Aragorn’s astute assessment. “Why do you assume I am hiding? Perhaps I only wish a quiet place in the sun where I can think.”

“You have picked the most hidden terrace possible. I only found you because I heard hobbit laughter. There is no sound like it in Middle earth.”

Frodo returned Aragorn’s fond smile, but only briefly. “Perhaps I am hiding.”

“What is it?” Aragorn asked in a soft voice. “Is something distressing you?”

Frodo sighed, clutching his knees to his chest. “It is Boromir.”

“Boromir?” Aragorn said in surprise. “What of him?”

“I…Aragorn.” Frodo sighed again and turned his weary eyes to the king. “I’m very ashamed.”

“What is it?” Aragorn’s voice was soothing, and Frodo was too weak to hold everything inside.

“Boromir has tried to visit me several times since I’ve awakened.”

Aragorn nodded. “He has, himself, only just recovered from grievous battle injuries. He inquired of your health even when he, himself, was bedridden. Have you spoken with him?”

Frodo shook his head. “I cannot.”

Aragorn settled against the wall beside Frodo, and a comfortable silence fell between them. Frodo realized how much he missed moments like this. He wished that instead of friends fussing over his physical ailments and trying to make certain he would not break apart, that they would spend more time just listening.

”Why not?” Aragorn finally asked.

“Well…the last time we spoke was the day…he tried--”

“The day the fellowship broke apart?” Aragorn interrupted gently.

Frodo nodded miserably. “I know it is wrong, Aragorn, but I see him as I saw him that day. His eyes were fierce and vacant.” He shuddered. “And I knew in that moment that he would kill me with no conscience, just as he would an orc. He arms were so crushing when he knocked me down. He is a powerful Man, Aragorn, and his power was thoroughly unleashed. He was not himself.”

“You know it was the influence of the Ring,” Aragorn said softly. “And that influence is gone.”

“I know.” Frodo rested his head on his knees. There was something else he could not bring himself to tell Aragorn, something that had made Boromir’s betrayal still throb in his chest like an infected wound.

Aragorn slid his arm over Frodo’s shoulders and squeezed. “But that does not make your feelings unjustified. You must take this time to recover, Frodo, and not just in body. Your spirit was as badly injured, and I am just as concerned about that. You must not allow anything to stress you now. If Boromir worries you, then do not feel guilty about not wanting to see him. If you wish, I will speak to him…tell him not to disturb you.”

Frodo shivered, but he did not answer.

One long ago night, while the fellowship had traveled through the desolate country of Hollin, Boromir had been cleaning his sword. Frodo had watched in fascination as the warrior’s hands ran a dirty cloth up and down the sword, his fingers powerful yet tender as they serviced his beloved blade.

Frodo’s cheeks grew hot and his breeches tightened. He disappeared with the excuse that he needed to relieve himself, but instead, he sank to his knees and unbuttoned his breeches, drawing out his hardening member. He closed his eyes and gripped himself, imagining Boromir’s hands, tender, strong, pliable, and large enough to easily crush, yet controlled and harnessed.

“Boromir,” he gasped, quickening his hands on himself, picturing the Man grunting with want, harnessing his urge to squeeze until Frodo broke. *Boromir, Boromir, faster!!* He rocked his hips, leaning into a pair of strong hands, imagining with utter clarity the feel of insistent lips on his.

His hands filled with sticky wet, and he kept his eyes shut, picturing Boromir licking his rough hands clean, reveling in the taste of Frodo.

“Frodo?” Frodo’s eyes flew open to find Boromir standing tentatively, watching him. Boromir glanced to Frodo’s breeches, and he released a groan of embarrassment. “I am sorry,” he had said, backing away. “I did not mean to…I was only afraid for you.”

Frodo had been mortified, but Boromir had never again spoken of it, though Frodo noticed an immediate difference in the way Boromir regarded him. Many a night around the modest campfire, Frodo and Boromir locked eyes. Many a time when Boromir thought Frodo did not notice, he stared at the hobbit in naked hunger. Sometimes Frodo met his gaze at these times, giving him a promising smile, allowing the Man to see the blush that colored his cheeks. He grew bolder about disappearing from the company to pleasure himself, though much to his disappointment, Boromir never again followed him. They never approached each other, never dared to explore untapped feelings.

And then the Ring had taken him, shattering all hope.

Frodo clenched his fists and looked at Aragorn, feeling cold with guilt. “I know he does not mean harm. He only wishes to see me after all we’ve been through.”

Aragorn held his hand to Frodo’s brow. “You are warm. Will you allow me to carry you back to your cottage?”

Frodo met Aragorn’s concerned gaze with a weary smile. He knew that he could not walk on his own, and he was too tired to resist. “All right.”

Aragorn wrapped Frodo’s cloak snuggly around the hobbit and lifted him. Frodo slid his arms around Aragorn’s neck and nuzzled his face into his dear friend’s neck. Immediately he began to doze. The only people on the streets of the upper level of the city were Gondorian soldiers, and they watched in curious respect as their king strode through the streets of Minas Tirith with a sleeping halfling cradled in his arms.

 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The breeze, fragrant with lilac and apple blossoms, rustled the tall grass on the Pellenor Field. Boromir’s heart could not help but lift in response to the sun shining bright and warm in the sky. Pavilions of different sizes and shapes, all bearing the banner of the White Tree, added splashes of vibrant color that complemented the clear sky. Boromir breathed in the varying and often contrasting aromas that drifted from the pavilions -- freshly baked breads, pies, meats roasted slowly over fire until they were tender and juicy. Beyond the field, the beloved towers of the White City now sparkled in triumph. The weather could not have obliged them more for the day Aragorn had appointed as a day of honor for the allies of the War of the Ring.

Though Boromir was dressed no differently from any other of the captains of Gondor, in black and silver with the White Tree on his breast, he wore the one piece of clothing that distinguished him from the rest--his richly woven fur-lined cloak. Though the warm afternoon made such a cloak rather uncomfortable, he wore it proudly because throughout his journey and all his battles, it had never left his back. When he had fallen in the final battle at the Black Gate, he had been found with it clinging to his blood-dappled shoulders.

Aragorn had claimed the kingship, and though nobody could be more worthy of it, Boromir could not help the bitter knot that still twisted inside him. As a lad, he remembered asking Father what would happen if the king never returned, whether there was a chance that any in their line of stewards could ever be king.

“Nay, son,” Father had said, shaking his head in his own bitterness. “Not if ten thousand years passed.”

Even then, as a young lad, the disappointment had twisted inside him. Faramir had never shared Boromir’s disgruntlement on the matter. He would ever be content to sit in a library in peaceful times and study Elvish history. Faramir could now have his wish. Peace had at last come to Gondor.

Boromir had eaten and drunk to satiation, a luxury that had been long in coming, and now he stood, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on the one who had captivated him since Rivendell. The Ringbearer was too immersed in conversation with his friends to notice Boromir, which was just as well because Boromir was not sure he would be able to tear his eyes away. How those Elvish eyes contrasted with the plain white linen shirt he wore! And though his smile was sweet, his lips twitched down in weariness as he linked arms with Pippin, who was nearly a head taller and dressed in the black and silver of the Guard. With his free hand, Frodo held a plate piled with food, though he wasn’t touching a bite of it. Sam hovered and fussed, prodding at him to eat.

Frodo laughed when Sam managed to slip a spoonful of meat between his pink lips. Unbelievable that such a delicate creature had survived his ordeal. From what Boromir had heard tell, Frodo had been dead by the time Gandalf had brought him to Aragorn in Ithilien. But the hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and Aragorn had called Frodo back. And here, only weeks after the shadow had been vanquished, Frodo stood with his friends, laughing gaily as if he were at a garden party back in their little country.

“Will he still not speak to you?” Faramir asked, startling Boromir. Boromir still marveled that both he and Faramir had survived the war, as both had been badly wounded. Neither had yet spoken of Father’s final madness and how that had nearly ended Faramir’s life.

“I did not hear you approach,” Boromir said, forcing himself to look away from the Ringbearer and meet his brother’s gaze.

“Come, Boromir, we shall speak to him now.” Faramir smiled. “Do you think I do not know you well? You’ll not rest until you do.”

A knot tightened in Boromir’s stomach and he could not calm the nervous thudding of his heart. All that had occurred when the Ring had overtaken him was still a blur, though he dreamed of it often. When Frodo had refused Boromir’s offer to relieve him of his burden, a red haze of fury had fallen before Boromir’s eyes. Frodo had looked up, his blue eyes dark with bewilderment and fear, so achingly fragile. The hobbit was armed, but he had no skills with that sword he called Sting, no intuition to draw it when he was in danger, and even if he had, he was no match for a mighty warrior of Gondor. Boromir’s groin had throbbed. How easy it would have been to pull him to the ground, to pin him there! How easy it would have been to beat him senseless, to rip the Ring from the pale, heaving chest, to ease the stiffening in his groin by thrusting into him until he bled and wept in pain. At that moment, he had wanted only to punish the halfling for keeping the Ring, for betraying Gondor by taking it to Sauron, when it was not his at all, but a gift for a son of Gondor to give his city!

By some marvel, Frodo had escaped his mad clutch, and his folly had passed as quickly as it had come on.

Boromir and Faramir reached the hobbits, who looked up at the Men eagerly – except for Frodo, Boromir was pained to notice.

“Frodo.” Faramir took Frodo’s pale hand in his and squeezed. “How do you feel?”

“I am well, thank you.” Frodo kept his eyes on Faramir, would not look at Boromir at all.

Boromir’s stomach twisted. This had been a poor idea. He felt a surge of irritation at his brother for putting him in this unpleasant position.

“I am glad to hear it,” Boromir said, though his voice was hoarse.

“And you, Pippin?” Faramir asked.

“I’m feeling as good as new,” Pippin said, flexing each of his arm muscles to prove it. “Legolas and Gimli are taking us hobbits on a trip. They say they must show us unruly hobbits that there is more to Gondor than Minas Tirith.”

“And since when did an elf and a dwarf become experts on Gondor?” Faramir laughed.

Frodo finally turned his gaze to Boromir. “How are you?” he asked in a polite tone, though he blinked and looked away. Pippin and Faramir began to move away, continuing to speak animatedly. Sam perceived Boromir’s desire to speak to Frodo alone and so followed Pippin and Faramir, though he kept an eye on Frodo.

“I am well.” Boromir swallowed. “Thank you.” He grasped for something more to say. In the background he heard carefree laughter, the chords of a harp and a woman’s clear voice singing.

“I had heard you were wounded in battle,” Frodo said carefully. Boromir recognized the halfling’s controlled politeness, and it hurt. “I am happy to see you recovered.”

“I want to thank you…” Boromir began, but there fell an awkward silence. Frodo looked down at his hairy toes, flushing, as if he were striving for any excuse to take his leave. Such unruly hair on such large feet! Boromir wished he could hold one of those sturdy feet in his lap and pull a comb through the curls. He wanted to tickle the bottom and see Frodo laugh. He was certain he had barely seen the halfling smile, much less laugh since Rivendell.

“Forgive me, Boromir,” Frodo finally said with a small bow. “But I must go. I promised Gandalf I would help him…” His voice trailed off and he flushed again, and Boromir felt his chest tighten in dismay. The halfling could not even make a graceful excuse.

Frodo clasped Boromir’s hand in his and kissed it. Boromir did not think he had ever seen Frodo or any of the other halflings bid anyone farewell in such a manner, and the hope that gave him, along with the feel of those soft lips on his hand sent a delightful shiver through him. “I am glad to meet with you in happier times. Perhaps we shall speak at greater length…a different time.”

Frodo dropped his hand quickly, almost as if the touch suddenly repulsed him, and Boromir’s throat filled with such misery that he could not answer. Frodo walked away, seemingly oblivious to his pain.

“Wait!” Pippin cried, breaking off from his conversation with Faramir. “Where are you going, Frodo?”

“Do not worry about me – Stay if you like!”

“No, no, I’m coming with you!” Pippin bid the two men a quick farewell and caught up with Frodo. Frodo staggered slightly in apparent weariness, and Pippin put his arm around his waist, steadying him.

“You spoke with him,” Faramir said with a fond smile. “Fascinating folk, are they not? A mere year ago, we never would have believed that not only do halflings truly exist but that they would come to shake down the Dark Lord.”

Boromir nodded stiffly. He was not in the mood for light-hearted banter.

“You are still distressed.” When Faramir looked at him with such compassion, Boromir knew it had always been worth it, all the times he had defended Faramir to his father. Father had thought Faramir’s soft and pitying nature to be a burden to their line. But kind perception was balm to a tortured heart.

Boromir released a tense sigh. “I do not believe Frodo has forgiven me for the day…what I did the day the fellowship broke, and I cannot blame him. But it hurts--” He broke off, ashamed that he had said so much to his perceptive brother.

He would say nothing of the countless nights on their journey in the wilderness -- the nights they were allowed to build a fire -- in which he had watched Frodo with such yearning. All the details were still etched on his mind – the way a blush would creep across the hobbit’s pale cheeks whenever someone spoke to him, his nearly inaudible sighs, how his dark lashes delicately brushed the skin under his eye when he closed his eyes. There had been the eve he had stumbled upon Frodo – the hobbit’s sweat-drenched face had been thrust back in concentrated pleasure, his soft hands frantic over a member long and hard, larger than he would have expected from a halfling. He could not be sure now, but at the time, he had been certain that he had heard the hoarse utterance of his own name.

Faramir nodded pensively. “It is strange, I must admit. He did seem rather cool toward you. I do not sense that from him toward me, and I was surely harsher to him than you were.”

A heat seeped over Boromir’s breast, and he swallowed miserably. Faramir had held a sword to Frodo’s neck, bound him, forced him to march far out of his way, nearly turned him over to Father. He had forced these indignities on Frodo, but he had not fallen to the Ring. In the end, he had triumphed where Boromir had failed, and Boromir could not bear to speak of this to him yet. Father had been wrong all along. Faramir was the stronger of the two brothers. He was the one who should carry the line of stewards. Boromir was no longer worthy.

A commotion in the crowd drew the attention of the brothers away from each other. They hurried toward a milling crowd, and Boromir pushed through it.

“What has happened?” Boromir asked a nearby guard.

“The Ringbearer has collapsed.”

Gandalf emerged from the crowd, carrying the limp halfling, who had taken leave of Boromir mere minutes earlier. A coldness filled Boromir’s stomach, and he now felt a terrible guilt that he had put Frodo under stress when his health was still so delicate.

“Move aside,” the wizard said tersely, pushing through the crowd. “Move aside.” The other three hobbits trotted after him, eyes shining with worry.

“I hope he survives this,” Faramir said quietly, his eyes dark with distress. “What a blow, a terrible blow it would be to lose him.”

Boromir nodded, and the world seemed to dim. His eyes were downcast, and he was unaware that a thin cloud had veiled the sun.


	3. Chapter 3

Frodo wandered to the window and sighed. Outside in courtyard behind the Houses of Healing, the sun shone with tantalizing brightness.

Frodo stuck his hand outside the window, longing to go for at least a short walk. It was not his body that should be imprisoned, but his mind that too easily clung to the wheel of fire. With too much time to think, the wheel festered and grew in his mind until sometimes he trudged again through Mordor, over the wasteland with the last of his strength. When he realized again where he was, his heart blackened. Nobody would ever know what torture it was to endure undeserved awe and praise from every person he encountered. In no way should he be honored for his deeds. In no way should the king, dear Strider, treat him with such kindness. He could only feel scathing shame that the end had come and he had blocked out Sam’s begging, blocked out all memory of the council in which he had agreed to destroy the Ring, and he had failed. As if to mock him, his hand throbbed where his finger was no more.

The Warden, a sturdy man who had once been a soldier of Gondor until he had been injured in battle years ago, came in. He walked with a limp, but his hands were capable and strong.

“Master Frodo, you look peaked. You should be in bed.”

“I feel just fine.” Frodo’s voice had come out with more vehemence than he had intended. “Please…May I not have a short walk?”

“I am sorry, Master Halfling. I cannot allow you to leave, by order of the king.”

“Then I am but a prisoner,” Frodo said bitterly. “All my friends have left, and I am alone.”

His throat caught with self-pity, though it was odd, since he had really had no desire to join his friends on the expedition to see Emyn Arnen with Faramir. He was indeed weary, but it was more a weariness of pretending to be interested in the life around him, pretending to be joyful when all of Minas Tirith celebrated.

“I fainted yesterday,” Frodo continued. “That was all. Please, Warden. Please let me go. You’ll not face the king’s wrath on my behalf. I want but a small walk in the sunshine.”

The Warden shook his head firmly. “I am sorry. I wish I could allow it, but the king has forbidden it.”

Frodo sank heavily on his bed and curled into himself, too broken even to feel fury at Aragorn. He barely noticed when the Warden left the room. He hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of feeling sorry for himself for quite some time, but now everything inside ached. His friends would be gone for at least a week, Aragorn was occupied with his duties as king, and there was nobody else he cared to see. He was not ill. He had merely overtaxed himself at the festivities.

He wanted more than anything to forget about this part of Middle earth and to go home to the rolling hills of the Shire, where perhaps he could start to heal. This fierce longing caused him a burst of heat in his chest, and he felt hatred for the stone streets of the White City. Here there were no plants, no green, and no dirt between his toes. A hobbit could go mad surrounded by nothing but stone and cliffs. Yes, the Shire would be balm to his heart and was far better than any healing Gondor could offer. But just thinking of the travel involved – he imagined days upon days of weary travel with only the hard ground upon which to sleep – made him feel ill.

“Master Halfling.” The Warden spoke gently, shaking Frodo’s shoulder. “Master Halfling, are you awake?”

Frodo opened his eyes. “Yes.” He had not heard the Warden return.

“You have a visitor.”

“There is nobody I care to see unless it be the king.”

_So I can tell him just how I feel about this confinement._

“Yet he insists upon seeing you,” the Warden said.

Frodo’s heart sank when he saw who filled the doorway.

Boromir bowed slightly. “Frodo, I hope you will forgive this intrusion. I wanted…” He swallowed, clutching the doorframe with his huge hands until his knuckles whitened. “I wished to see how you were.”

“I am not ill,” Frodo said with a sidelong glance at the Warden. “I am being held here against my will.” He hated to admit it, but speaking to someone other than the Warden had already lifted his heart. “Thank you, though. Come in and have a seat.”

Boromir looked relieved, and his hands – Frodo believed they had been trembling -- relaxed as he entered the room.

“It is not a bad sort of room to be imprisoned in,” Boromir said, nodding. “There are dungeons deep beneath the Citadel that have a much grimmer view than you have here.”

Frodo managed a weak smile. “But I wish to feel the sun.”

“That should be able to be arranged, as you do not look to be bedridden. Warden, can he not go out into the gardens at least?”

The Warden sighed, clearly defeated.

“I suppose so. But you must watch that he does not take the initiative of leaving the grounds altogether. These halflings detest being fussed over.”

“I shall be content with a walk in the courtyard,” Frodo said. He wondered if the Warden realized that he had just spoken about Frodo as if he were not in the same room.

  
***

Frodo and Boromir ambled in pleasant silence for several moments. There were none of the usual flowers that grew in the spring in this garden, as nobody this past autumn had been inclined to think about making the garden a lovely spot with an attack from Mordor so imminent. But some roses were in bloom, and the spring air was sweet and warm. Frodo took blissful breaks to sniff an occasional rose, and Boromir waited patiently. Frodo tilted his face eagerly to the sun, keeping his eyes closed, standing so very still.

“What troubles you, my friend?” Boromir asked quietly. “You suffer greatly, though your body seems to have mostly healed.”

Frodo took a deep, jagged breath and sat heavily on a stone bench, his head bowed. Boromir sat beside him, and Frodo noticed that he was careful to keep distance between them. Frodo finally forced himself to look at him.

“Sometimes I do not feel worthy of gazing at the sun.”

Boromir’s mouth opened in shock, and Frodo wondered if it was a mistake to tell him this. Perhaps everyone would soon understand that their praise of the Ringbearer was unfounded, that instead he belonged clapped in chains and thrown into the deepest dungeon for betraying the trust of the Free Peoples.

“You?” Boromir finally managed. “Nay. You more than anyone deserves-” He reached tentatively for Frodo’s shoulder, but pulled back when Frodo flinched.

“Do not speak…” Frodo’s voice came out in harsh fury. “Do not speak like the others. I need truth and honestly now, not false praise. I give you the chance now to take back any kindness.” He met Boromir’s bewildered gaze. “I was reluctant to see you for many reasons, but I allowed you in just now because I was lonely…and because I thought maybe you more than anyone might understand—“ His voice broke, though no tears came.

“I would beg your forgiveness,” Boromir said, grasping Frodo’s hand and squeezing. Frodo allowed it.

“You cannot imagine how you made me feel that day,” Frodo said in a flat voice. “When you fell on me…with no thought but that accursed Ring.”

Boromir paled slightly, his eyes filled with pain. “I was not myself--”

“I know.” Frodo gazed at Boromir’s agonized face and his anger began to melt. “Boromir, I cannot blame you. I…I do not remember much about the end in Mordor – just flame and shadow, but—“ He let out a shuddering sigh. He bit the bottom of his lip and then continued. “If Sam had tried to wrestle me for the Ring, I would have killed him. One reason I have avoided you is that I could not bear to face that.”

Frodo’s vision dimmed and cruel echoing whispers filled his ears, causing him violent shivers. The sun had slipped behind a cloud and the air had turned so frigid, which was odd because fire crackled all around him, licking at him, trying to take from him what was his.

“Frodo?” Boromir’s voice sounded far away, and a strong arm encircled his shoulders. “Frodo?…You are unwell and I will help you back to your bed.”

“No, you’ll not have it!” Frodo heard himself shout from a distance, and he pulled out of Boromir’s embrace, nearly toppling off the bench. The sun brightened and warmed, and he could see Boromir’s face. He scooted back toward Boromir again, his hands still shaking. “I am sorry. It was only a shadow, but it has passed.”

“Are you certain, Frodo?” Boromir took Frodo’s hand again, rubbing warmth into it. Frodo’s throat filled with a joyful lump that Boromir’s concern seemed to be for _Frodo_, hobbit of the Shire, and not for the “Ringbearer.”

“You frightened me,” Boromir said, keeping Frodo’s hand clasped in his.

Frodo nodded and managed a smile. “Boromir, what do you plan to do now?”

Boromir’s face relaxed. “Nothing is certain yet. My brother and I – Well, we shall have to decide who shall command over Ithilien and who shall be Captain of Gondor.”

“It seems very clear to me,” Frodo said. He found he liked the relaxed hold Boromir had on his hand. He did not move, for fear Boromir would release him.

“What do you mean?”

“I do not think you wish to leave the city, even if you are not in command.”

“Perhaps Faramir does not, either.”

“He is soothed by the woods of Ithilien.”

A slight smile turned up Boromir’s lip. “How do you know?”

“We talked long in Ithilien.”

“I had thought he held you prisoner.” There was a strange edge to Boromir’s voice.

“So he did,” Frodo said with a smile. “But he was not unkind.”

“Ah, I see. While I was defending our fair city, my brother had the pleasure of—“ He stopped abruptly and flushed. Frodo’s cheeks heated, too, and blood pounded in his ears. This conversation had taken a peculiar turn. If Frodo were with anyone besides Boromir, he would feel uncomfortable now, but now he felt safe and warm and utterly cared for. His heart fluttered, and he felt a stirring of what had begun during the long march through Hollin, when he had first truly noticed the Gondorian’s wide shoulders and lean hands, callused from war.

Frodo’s finger gave a mean throb, and his shoulders hunched forward. Such thoughts were useless. He would never feel happiness again. That was his punishment for claiming the Ring. His wounds would never heal, despite Aragorn’s promises. They would be a constant reminder of just how weak Frodo had been at the end. When Boromir had fallen to the Ring, at least his reasoning had been noble. He had fostered only the wish to defend his city and to relieve Frodo of his burden.

Frodo’s last thoughts before claiming the Ring -- nay, he could not allow himself to think upon them now. All it did was cover his heart in darkness. He did not wish this, not in front of Boromir, whose heart was unveiled and revealed on his face.

“Come, Boromir,” Frodo said, standing. “I am weary after all. I should return to bed.” His voice was faint, even to himself. The idea of walking any distance at all made his muscles ache terribly. He did not deserve to be around Boromir and other such great people. They bowed to him, catered to his needs, but there was nothing in his heart that deserved it. He saw only a twisted, mean creature inside himself, capering with glee as he held the Ring high above him in triumph.

What Boromir saw in him, he could not say, but the Man nodded slightly.

“Yes, Frodo, I would not tax you. Let us go back.”

“Boromir.” Frodo paused, and the Man turned, his face open and friendly. “I…I wish to apologize.” Frodo swallowed. “I was ill-mannered to avoid you so, and—“

“Hush.” Boromir lay his hand on Frodo’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “Hush, you need not say more.”

 

END


End file.
